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As usual Cavendish knew exactly where to scratch to raise a painful welt upon her heart, dashing and raising her hopes in one fell sentence. She had not seen or heard a word from McCrae since the confrontation with Corvacho. Even Rosalind knew nothing of his whereabouts or what he was up to. Cavendish went on to explain he had a task for her. She must spy upon a group of Catholic swordsmen who regularly attended the academy. The peace treaty with Spain would be signed any day soon, and as a sign of goodwill King James intended to show more tolerance toward Catholics, ending the persecution that marred the end of Elizabeth’s reign. Cavendish was of the belief that peace was no reason for complacency. While tolerance was a worthy virtue, it did not negate the need for vigilance. He gave her a list of names, some of which she recognized, all good and honorable men. She hoped fervently her estimation of their characters was accurate, for the thought of dropping anyone into Cavendish’s orbit of suspicion was not something that filled her with any joy.

“By the by,” he said, watching her with malicious calculation, “you may be pleased to know Signor Corvacho made a full recovery and was sent home to Spain once he was well enough to travel.”

“I do not see why that would please me?”

“Well it kept your pretty head out of the noose. No, in fact that was more my doing. You owe me far more than you can ever imagine.”

Her instincts told her not to believe him. He was toying with her, manipulating her, blackmailing and controlling her; the usual tactics he liked to employ, all in the name of “King and Country” as he would have her believe.

Still watching her closely he continued, “As I have explained several times, I feel you will be useful, and I am not a man who can abide any form of waste.” She stared past his shoulder and pressed her tongue to the back of her teeth, imagining all the ways to skewer him if ever she had the chance. She felt his eyes rake over her taking in her every crevice and curve. “I think some of your other little fencing friends may also prove useful. Rosalind is already ingratiating herself in Queen Anne’s inner circle, and of course your friend Annie has been a pleasant revelation, by far the best harlot I have ever enjoyed. Setting her up in her own house for my exclusive use has been an excellent tonic. When I tire of her, I may use her skills to elicit information via the pillow. I do not do this often, but I feel I must thank you. It is only through your little venture that I became aware of her existence, so you see we have been useful to each other. Who would have thought?”

“Indeed,” she replied with a vinegar stare and a honey smile, since baring her teeth was the only way to stop herself from sinking them into his face and biting off his nose. Cavendish was like a human form of stinging nettles, one small brush led to hours of misery, and the more you rubbed at where the nettle had touched you, the worse it stung, and the more it burned.

Whitefriars became her refuge, her den, her safe familiar place. She rarely ventured out unless Grandma insisted. Pride goeth before a fall it was said, and she had prided herself on her strength, yet now all she wanted to do was to lick her inner wounds and wait for them to heal. By rights she had no reason for her anxiety. Father’s falling sickness had settled down now that he was more vigilant in looking after his health, taking more tonic and less strong ale. The rapist had left the country and the Sisters of the Sword were all thriving and still met to train every week. To all appearances she was the same Lucinda, yet her dreams told a different tale, and she jumped at the slightest provocation, skittish as a kitten on a rocky boat.

It was Wednesday again, and she had not long finished the Sisters’ lesson and embraced them all before they scattered and dispersed. Grandma was off visiting one of her mothers-to-be. Father and Ferguson were at their swordmaster’s meeting, so all of Whitefriars was hers and hers alone. She was putting some training leathers back on a hook when she sensed a movement, an alteration of shadow. Instinctively she raised her rapier as she whirled around.

“You! What are you doing here?”

“Not a very welcoming greeting,” he said with the soft rolling lilt that sent a jolt down her spine. “I came here to see you. I have been abroad, but now I am back, and I have brought something for you. We can fight first if you like, but I would rather talk first and fight later.”

As usual he had tipped her off balance setting her scrambling for equilibrium. She held the rapier close and at an angle, rigidly guarding her chest.

“For six long weeks I have seen neither hide nor hair of you, and now you turn up wanting to fight!”

“Among other things,” McCrae said with his teasing twinkling eyes. “Talk. Fight. Kiss. I don’t mind which order. You choose.”

“Ooooh,” she seethed, clutching the hilt tightly, “you are the most vexatious man who ever drew breath!”

His smile slowly widened. “That is the Lucinda I have missed.”

It was hard not to hurl herself at him and pummel his chest with her fists, out of rage, relief, and God forbid, desire. How she wanted to cling to him and kiss him with wild reckless abandon which was exactly why she should not do anything of the sort.

“You want to fight and talk? We always fight and talk. Whenever we talk, we seem to fight. I do not understand the distinction.”

“Why don’t you fetch me a rapier?” he said, the irritating grin still firmly in place. “I thought we could have a bout on the piste, rapiers first since that is your preferred weapon and then afterwards you could try this.” He unsheathed his Scottish broadsword from its scabbard and proffered the weapon to her.

“You have a new sword? The basket. It is different.” She put aside the rapier while taking the shiny new broadsword from him. The basket handguard was exquisite. On one side it was fashioned to form a rose, on the other a lion’s head. “A lion and a rose,” she said softly. “Beautiful and perfectly balanced. It feels as if it was made to fit my hand.”

He stepped in closer and gave her the look that always threatened to make her legs buckle. “It was made for you. A gift from me. Hence, the Scottish lion.”

“And the rose?”

“For Rosalind. If not for you, we would not have found the man who defiled her.”

“It hardly did any good. I am told he was handed over to the Spanish and sent back to Spain for the sake of politics and diplomacy. Where is the justice in that?”

As she spoke, he unstrapped the scabbard from his hips and began to thread it behind her back and around her waist, skirting the gleaming blade warily and avoiding looking her in the eye. Blast the man, he had the hide to be grinning at her. “It is hardly a matter to smile about.”

“Oh but I disagree.” He put his finger up to her lips to hush her. “And before you say anymore please allow me to explain and put that sword in its sheath where it belongs.” Slowly he took the blade from her and slotted it into the entrance of the scabbard, before plunging it home inch by inch, sending her knees further on the pathway to collapsing. “Corvacho was sent home on the good ship Stella Maria, but alas the seas in the Bay of Biscay are notoriously treacherous. Regrettably on a particularly grey, bleak and wild day at sea he was washed overboard.”

“How? How is this possible? How do you know this for sure and it is not some story so no Englishman will come after him seeking revenge?” By now McCrae had edged closer and ran a finger along the top of the waist strap of the scabbard, taunting her with the touch of his hand as much as with what he had to say.

“I know because I was there. My uncle entrusted me with ensuring Corvacho’s safe passage.”

“So you failed your uncle?” He ran his finger up the front of her bodice, tracing all the way from the scabbard’s waistband up to her throat where his fingers made small, delicate, tantalizing circles, distracting her from finishing her question.

“My task was to ensure his safe passage. I failed in my task, but my uncle does not seek to punish me. Justice is best taken at arm’s length, were his instructions…” He stepped back and showed her the exact distance of his arm’s length. “That is all I can say.” His face was rigid, his stare fixed ahead as if gazing to review a memory he would both savor and wish to forget. “Enough of talking. Do you like your sword? Shall we kiss, or shall we fight?”

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